Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and the past couple years of my short, intolerable life.
Bear in mind this story is to some degree, OOC. It does however, keep canon-couples. The supernatural element of the story will be kept at a bare minimum until a few chapters into.
Jsyk, Mike's a sweetie in this one.
Chapter One
Trying to escape my first day unscathed seemed like an impossibility when my vehicle of choice sounded like it was grinding boulder and tricycle in its engine. My truck, the traitorous mass of rust and archaic design. The entire cab rocked when I pulled it into park, my body jerked forward. My fists pounded against the wheel, stilling my torso but letting out a lone, uninterrupted honk.
Touché, truck, touché. I guess it was as upset with my reckless driving as I was with being the driver.
Warily, I glanced around—yeah, stragglers in the parking lot were staring; waiting for the obnoxious offender of innocent hearing organs to reveal themselves.
Well then.
I swung my satchel over my shoulder, and adjusted my jacket. As I hopped out of the cab, I was careful to not ruining my tights.
Cold clung to my legs, unforgiving and harsh. My face stung.
My Phoenix ensemble would not play off well in Forks. Skirts just weren't a possibility, and I pouted to myself. Curious as to what typical wear was, I eyed a select few near me. The girls were far more scantily clad than I was. Wow.
Still, some lascivious eyes latched onto my legs.
Heat rose in my cheeks, battling the sharp pinpricks of crisp air. I was then glad I'd swiped the jacket from Charlie's closet. It was made of heavy material, and in comparison, I'd be the most appropriately dressed. My overprotective father, the Chief of Police, would be proud.
I marched towards the building I assumed was the administrations department, but my movements were stiff and my oxfords slid against slick pavement.
My footing steadied after a quick jolt, but it had really been because of an arm that was currently securing my lower back. The arm retreated shortly after it had served its purpose.
It was kind of sinewy under the long sleeve. A boy's. I smiled at him. His near-white hair was gelled into neat spikes, and his eyes were a soft blue, worried. He came with the pure intent of saving me from a disastrous fall. His touch had been modest, unlingering.
"Thanks." I met his eyes and he grinned. He had a dimpled chin.
"You're Isabella Swan," his brows furrowed, as if in disbelief.
"Bella," I corrected, somewhat frustrated that my name had preceded my person already. "And you are..."
"Oh, uh. Mike. Mike Newton."
"Well, Mike," I paused for dramatic effect, "Mike Newton. Could you please show me where all the cool kids get their transfer papers and schedules and whatnot?"
"Is that where you were headed before?" He muffled a laugh.
"Yes?"
"I'll lead the way, m'lady." He extended his elbow. I raised an eyebrow in question. He nodded towards it and I slowly linked my arm through his. Then, with a satisfied breath, he dragged me to a complete turn, in the opposite direction. Apparently I had been headed the wrong way.
Mike deposited me next to the office. It lacked a sign, and a room number. I would've never found it. "I'll wait here." Grateful, I whispered a "thanks" as I passed through. At the sound of my shuffling and the clicking of the door slamming into place behind me, a woman in her late fifties looked up, startled. After a long pause, recognition seemed to dawn on her face because her lips lifted into an effortless smile and the corners of her eyes became accented with crinkles.
"Oh, good morning, dear," she hummed. "You must be Isabella, we've been expecting you since your father called. Forks High is so happy to have you." I bit my cheek. I wondered how long Charlie had been spreading news of my arrival. Then I realized she had been smiling for a while and that I had been awkwardly silent.
I read her name tag. "Er, Ms. Cope, I prefer Bella. Oh, and I was told to come here to get some papers?"
Her eyes grew wide, and she recovered from a trance of some sort. "Of course! I almost forgot, how terrible would that have been, hm?" I chewed my cheek as she laughed to herself. She got up from her seat—she was a short woman—and dug around her file cabinet. With a final "Aha!" she passed me my schedule, and some slips my individual teachers would have to sign. I'd need to relocate this office sometime after school. She said she hoped I would like it here. I gave her a tight smile, thanked her, and slid out.
Mike met me and skimmed my schedule. "You're so lucky, you get study hall right before lunch every day, that's practically a double lunch," he exclaimed, envy clear in his voice. I shrugged, but it came out as a shiver and I whimpered. He noticed, and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. He was warm.
After I blew out a contented sigh, he jutted his chin out towards a general direction. "Race ya."
Oh, it was on.
I giggled as we dashed over icy, wet cement and cut through dry air and into one of the main buildings. I huffed. Mike had let me win, I think. I wasn't shivering anymore.
"How are the lockers numbered?"
"Hm, it doesn't really matter. They just assigned you a random one. It's probably already being used by someone else."
"What?"
"Yours is a fountain locker. Y'know, right next to a fountain."
"But. Then what do I—"
He kicked open a bottom locker and shrugged off his coat. He held out his hand for mine. I clutched Charlie's jacket and shook my head. He rolled his eyes and pried it off in a fluid motion. He stashed them both into the locker, and slammed it shut.
Well, I guess that took care of my problem, whether I'd liked it or not. The building was kept a moderate temperature, at least.
"C'mon, English is this way. Oh, and guess what? I'm in your class." He winked. I shot him an amused look. "Don't ever look at Mr. Mason's head. He's... kind of bald," he whispered, conspiratorially. I broke out into a laugh, but he clasped a hand over my mouth. I licked it, and he pulled away.
"Shh, Swan. Classes have started."
The hallways were empty, nearly clear of bystanders. We were late. I felt guilty. Mike didn't seem to mind as he kept feeding me anecdotes about my teachers.
Just as I snorted at his imitation of Mr. Varner, my future Trig teacher, Mike skidded to a stop, arms out, trapping me like a net. My giggles softened. He twisted his neck like an owl, scary.
"We hath arrived at the castle of literature, m'Swan Princess. Beware the balded dragon, for he hath fiery breath," he deadpanned with what I assumed was a Scottish accent.
I snickered, then threatened to do cruel things to his teeth and tongue if he dared to refer to me as any class of royalty of any specie of bird again. He shrugged noncommittally and nudged the handle.
He and I ducked into seats near the back. Hopefully, Mr. Masen hadn't acknowledged our late entrances and deem an explanation or introduction necessary.
Luckily, he only looked unimpressed in my direction, asked me to pick up the reading list on my way out, then droned on the rest of the period. Some kids gawked at my entering with my particular blonde companion, and chatted fervently with their partners. I paid them little attention because Mike quieted them with his glare. Perhaps he was notorious for a vicious murder I'd never know about, and his glare held heavy weight.
Midway through the class, the teacher's droning become unbearable. Mike kept me entertained with his own pseudo-performance and retelling of Romeo and Juliet by parting his hair in a particularly old fashioned style and artfully mimicking Mr. Masen.
A shrill ring shook me from my muffled teeters. Students eagerly shot up from their desks and cleared out. Mike snatched up two reading lists—since he lost his own some time ago—while Mr. Masen signed my slip.
"Who do you have next?"
"Mr. Jefferson."
"Aw, I'm not in your class then. Oh, hey Angela," he called out, hand locked on the slim shoulder of a passing girl. She turned towards us. Her dark hair was tied up, a floral wiry band held it in place. She looked past Mike and met my gaze through her geek chic lenses. A tentative smile played on her lips. Angela was pretty.
Mike muttered something in her ear, and called "Later" to us as he ran down the hall. A teacher waved furiously for him to slow down. He frowned at her and changed his run into a skip. I snorted, and Angela's smile widened. She really was pretty.
"You like to be called Bella, right? I'm Angela Weber, nice to meet you." I blinked, tilting my head downward in response. I guess Mike's farewell gift had been getting an awkward introduction on my behalf out of the way.
"Do you happen to know where Jefferson's class would be?" I was curious, after all, my one and only knight had fled.
"Yes, we have Government together," she led us outside, but not before I had retrieved my jacket, and into another building. She was shy, but she diligently pointed out the numbers on the walls and the order in which the rooms were numbered. I appreciated her troubles; maybe I'd be able to locate my own classes effortlessly someday.
Angela chose two empty seats at the front, and I slid into the one next to her after Mr. Jefferson signed my slip. Despite the fact that I had been sitting at a key vantage point—I could feel eyes boring into the back of my skull—the buzzing was kept to a minimum. This was probably because Mr. Jefferson possessed an intimidating stature.
Surprisingly, he was a good teacher and his lesson was immensely enjoyable. I was almost reluctant to leave when the bell had rung. Angela offered to walk with me to Trigonometry, since it was on the way to her class. I thanked her profusely.
Mr. Varner became an eternal enemy of mine when he requested I do an introduction. I stood in front of the chalkboard, eyes glued to the floor and stammered that I'd like to be called Bella, and that I had moved from Arizona and that, while I did not have a personal vendetta against numbers, I'd always been mathematically challenged. At this I earned a few honest chuckles and vocalized agreements.
I chose a desk near the front, so I could make a quick escape after Trig. The second he commenced his teaching, however, someone poked furiously at my arm. Well, more like stabbed.
Behind me sat a girl with brunette curls. Her shirt was incredibly low cut. "You're Isabella Swan."
"Bella." A few heads snapped towards me. I reddened.
She unabashedly stood up, ignored Mr. Varner's look of disdain, and perched herself into the seat next to me. She propped her desk dangerously close to mine, and I could smell baby powder on her.
She leaned forward, exposing more cleavage than I'd ever be comfortable with. Either she hadn't noticed, or didn't care, because she was scrutinizing me, hard.
"Your eyes are violet. Like, the cutest blue I've ever seen," she remarked incredulously, more to herself than to me.
I shrugged. I had actually been expecting someone to notice sooner. Mike and Angela hadn't mentioned it aloud, but had been transfixed at some point when I had met their eyes. I'd assumed that was what people had been talking about all morning; the unnatural purplish hue. She had been confirming a rumor.
"I'm Jessica," she extended a manicured hand. I shook it delicately; I didn't want to get scratched.
"Bella."
"Are you wearing contacts? Is that a family thing? How do you get your lashes so long and your hair so shiny? Are you really bad at math? I'm bad at math, too. Hey, we should study together, when's your study hall?"
"I'm er, sorry, what? Um, I have study hall right after." That was a lot of questions.
"Hm, I have study hall after lunch. Ugh, that's so annoying. Looks like I have to tell you everything now."
Jessica began instructing me on the workings of Fork's inner circle. She was in the cheer squad, which Lauren was cheer captain of so if I ever wanted to join I'd have to get on Lauren's good side. And that the Spartans, our basketball team, was full of extremely sexy guys, and so being a cheerleader was worth my while.
She kept listing names, and I kept forgetting them. I felt bad. She was being overly friendly. It was counterproductive and far more off putting than one would imagine. I hadn't really been paying attention until she mentioned that I should sit with her and her friends during lunch, and said Mike's name in passing. I visibly brightened at this, and she silenced mid-word. Her eyes squinted at me.
"You don't like him, do you?"
"Who?"
"Mike."
I shook my head. She brightened. Mike was claimed territory. "He's nice, though."
Jessica then redirected the conversation on the basketball team, since Mike plays Small Forward. I don't know anything about the sport, but that probably explains why his arms are so strong and why his glare was enough to quiet an entire classroom.
Today was Monday and I had study hall right after. Jessica gave me directions to the library and I gave a final promise to join her at lunch. I walk-jogged like a mad woman. Eyes followed me in the hallways, and I didn't have a companion I could deflect my attentions to like I had all morning. I kept my head down.
Silly decision on my behalf. I collided into something hard, a chest, well-toned and muscular. But he was so, so cold, like winter embodied, and it sifted from the fabric of his shirt. I let in a shaky breath, about to apologize, when my lashes fluttered at the scent of musk and—he tensed. He let out a slow, chilling exhale down my back, tickling my hair. Gooseflesh erected on my skin, and my nipples grew taut. I blushed crimson, and my neck felt hot. "Sorry," I squeaked, and ducked my head away.
I ran down an eerily vacant hallway, shoved the library doors open and rushed into the farthest table back.
A dreary light flooded through the window, encompassing me in a sunless embrace. The stranger had smelled heavily of something visceral, sweet, and dangerous. I let out a nervous sound, like something was bubbling at the back of my throat.
I flipped open my bag, then remembered homework would have to wait—Forks High was poorly funded, and I'd have to purchase my textbooks on Amazon or something. I belatedly wondered if the USPS ever ventured into this inconsequential rainy town.
In the meantime, however, I was in a room full of books. Self-indulgence in a fictional read would comfort me until next period. Wandering into the mystery and thriller section, my fingers smoothed over binds, printed letters, threaded covers. They were all in varying states of decay and wear.
Then my eyes locked on a title that piqued my interest.
But alas, I couldn't reach it, even on tiptoes. Damn my pathetic height.
I dragged a chair over, casting furtive glances, carefully avoiding the librarian. I didn't know if she'd be upset by me moving the furniture, or god forbid she had a phobia of chair thieves.
Elevated, and tiptoeing, my fingers could barely grasp it. The book was securely packed between its fellow book-mates. As I shifted my footing, the chair slanted forward, all its weight landed on an opposite leg. I let out a tiny shriek, unable to muffle it as both hands clutched desperately to the shelf. Stupid, dysfunctional chair. Shame on me for not testing it beforehand.
I made a last attempt at reaching the book, careful to avoid the corner of the bad leg, but the chair creaked under my feet and my footing shook. Arms clamped onto the book shelves around my waist. The chair steadied.
Apples and sweat and mint filled my lungs. Cold radiated from behind me. It was him.
"Allow me," his voice was a strain of musical vibrations. The hissing of lava fusing with ocean.
Nodding dumbly, my legs touched the ground a second later.
Embarrassed, my glare was fixed on the crippled leg of the chair. From my periphery, I could see that he was wearing scuffed loafers. Authentic leather.
He brought the book within arm's reach. I peeked from under my lashes, wondering what kind of—
Chiseled jaw, faint stubble, bold, crooked nose. Red lips pulled into a wicked smirk. Thick lashes and brows. Wild, disheveled coppery auburn hair.
Fuck me.
I couldn't breathe. My blood came too quick, too thickly. I was suffocated me. My heart stuttered, contracted, each thrust a forced, hard jab. My lungs hurt.
I took in a wheezing breath. It didn't help. My blood wasn't circulating.
His glare was intense on me, penetrating and murderous. His eyes, swirls of liquid gold, dimmed to coal in a blink.
Violent tremors racked my spine. I whispered a plea, foreign on my lips, the tip of my tongue tapped the top jaw on the first syllable. My tongue, teeth and lips retreated on the second syllable. My voice shook, and I was unsure if he had discerned the intelligible jumble. i wasn't even sure what I had been saying.
His eyes shut so fiercely, a grimace broke from his beautifully crafted features. My words had shattered him.
I stopped breathing altogether. My heart ached as if I had intentionally hurt him, this being who was perhaps far more delicate than imaginable.
His lips parted then.
"Bella."
When he said my name, velvet over ice and fire, my heart thundered. A brutal storm after a placid drought.
A pulse sparked, sharp, quick between my thighs. My knees buckled as my panties dampened. I fell forward, but hard arms caught me, delicate around my waist, firm and unmoving. His muscles twitched under my ribs.
I was gasping, but my lungs crackled against the air, too dry and too strong.
The book lay unattended on the floor behind his feet.
No werewolves, I've decided. Yes vampires. I'm not sure where Jacob lies, yet.
I adore reviews and the like.
Oh, and I'm currently beta-less, so if anyone spots an error and lets me know, I'd appreciate it greatly.